I LIVED WITH A PROSTITUTE

Unlike Snoop, I do love them hos. I admire their craftiness and ability to continually work despite serious occupational hazards, like throat herpes, which can leave its victims with a permanent T-Pain auto-tune voice. Unfortunately, most people hold negative stereotypes of prostitutes as drug-addicted heathens who will suck one’s balls off for the price of a Slurpee. Truth is a lot of hookers are sober and generally good, though money-hungry, people. I know, I lived with a prostitute.

I found my roommate “Autumn” on Craigslist. She was looking for a quiet, reliable housemate who would agree to leave the condo during client hours (weekdays from 9 A.M. to 5 P.M. and by appointment). In exchange, I would receive ultra-cheap rent in a prime San Diego neighborhood. I moved in within three weeks.

Autumn claimed to be a masseuse; at first, I gave her the benefit of the doubt. There was a massage table in the living room and oils on the counters. Besides, she didn’t fit the image of hookers I’d seen on television or during drunken nights (and Sunday afternoons) in Tijuana. She was articulate and drug-free.

In due time, however, her story started to come apart. The condo was old and damp, and the shag carpet was stained. It was reasonable to imagine a client coming over for head but not a high priced massage. Also, there was a mobile stripper pole in the living room for clients who “want to learn pole dancing to improve their flexibility.” Next to the pole were strategically placed baby wipes, perfect for removing residue from snatch juice and Victoria’s Secret Strawberries and Champagne lotion. Autumn also told me she did “loin bedazzling” for clients who wanted bling around their privates. She claimed to make good money providing this service to strippers, male and female. I saw pictures of her work on her laptop and admittedly she had skills. I suggested she market her artistic talents to the hip-hop community. Who couldn’t imagine rappers yelling, “NIGGA, YO’ BALLS AIN’T SHININ’ LIKE MINE!”?

A couple months passed, and Autumn and I developed a cordial relationship. She was older, probably in her early 40s, and talked to me like a wise aunt would, but I knew very little of her personal life. I wasn’t even sure I knew her real name, as most of her mail was addressed to another name. Still, I minded my business and we were fine until the day I arrived home a few minutes earlier than usual.

It was only a little after 5 P.M., so technically I was abiding by our agreement. Something told me to leave and come back an hour later, but the urge to watch Judge Judy, whom I had missed for months, was too much. I slowly opened the door and walked towards the living room. Autumn yelled “Dammit! Hold on!” I stood there frozen, like that time my dad caught me having sex and gave me the following advice: “Boy, you ain’t done a woman right unless she leave some hairs between yo’ teeth!”

Autumn emerged from behind a makeshift curtain used to cover the massage table, which was actually a blanket attached to ceiling hooks. Her hair was unkempt. Her thick thighs spilled out of the boy shorts she wore. The underwear was crooked and pulled low. I could see a line where her shaved pubic hair would have started. She was not bedazzled.

She yelled, “I told you 5 o’clock!”

I answered, “My bad… but it’s already after 5.”

Just then I caught a glimpse of a bare-ass man hurrying towards the bathroom. My bathroom.

“What’s he doing?!” I yelled.

“Oh…he just needs to use the bathroom real fast…. Look, we’re gonna have to do something about this. I have clients! I didn’t mean exactly 5 o’clock. My clients need time!” I walked away without another word. I went into my room and shut the door. I sat there helpless as some man in need of a fix used my shower and probably rubbed one off.

Days later, Autumn said, “We need to talk.” She looked like a seasoned boss about to fire her employee. “I like having you has a roommate and everything but you’re kind of messing up my money. I need to work more than just 9 to 5–”

I cut her off: “Look, whatever you do is your business. I’m in my room keeping to myself. If you need to work, go ahead and work. I don’t judge.”

“I run a legitimate business,” she said. She had fallen in love with her lies. “But if I have to fuck to pay the bills, then so be it. But I need to be flexible for my clients.” Then she said it, “I’ll need you to be out the place by the 10th. Even without your rent, I can do better by having more hours for my people.”

I was being macked by a hooker, but my understanding wouldn’t allow me to be angry. Autumn was about making money, and I was in the way. I moved two weeks later.

Slick bitch never returned my security deposit.

-DEWAN GIBSON
ImperfectEnjoyment.com